


Satellite

by piggy09



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18832255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: FROM: VILLANELLEWhat are you wearing?





	Satellite

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone's already written a sexting fic after the last ep but I had to do it. I had to.
> 
> ...let me know if the formatting of this doesn't work, I did my best

What are you wearing?

Villanelle isn’t really expecting Eve to respond; mostly what she’s expecting is that, somewhere, Eve is choking on her perfectly-prepared boring coffee and stuttering around her perfectly-prepared boring words. With Nico? No, not with Nico. With someone. The woman from work, maybe, the one who had walked into Villanelle’s murder in Amsterdam and walked out again like it hadn’t even touched—

Villanelle’s phone buzzes. She rolls over onto her back on the bed, feels her hair dangle over the foot of it – nice – and picks up her phone.

This number is for work communication ONLY, Villanelle.

Where is she? Eve. At work? In her empty house? In her empty house, alone, hair still wet from the shower?

How do you know this isn’t for work?

Buzz.

Villanelle. I’m serious.  
  


So am I! I can tell you what I’m wearing if you want ;) 

Silence from the phone. Eve: groaning, shoving her hands through the mass of her hair. Biting down on her lower lip. Thinking _why is she doing this, I don’t want this_. The pulse of her heartbeat in her clit, but only a little.

I’m wearing a silk robe with flowers on it.  
It’s very comfortable.  
Not as comfortable as being naked though.  
  
Villanelle.  
  
Are you going to tell me to stop?

No response. Inside the dark hush of Villanelle’s skull, Eve shoves herself to standing with shaking hands. She stumbles away from the kitchen table, up the creaking stairs to her room; she is holding her phone in both hands, tightly. The white light of the screen makes her face shine shallow. _Is she typing? Is Villanelle typing? What’s she going to say?_ and the heat spreading up into her belly like a dark flower blooming. Her thighs rubbing together. She tucks her hair behind her ear, she trails her fingers along her neck. The pulse point, the jugular, the million boring parts of the throat that people always think Villanelle should know.

Eve probably knows. If Villanelle asked, Eve would tell her – her voice rough, her cheeks red, her eyes wide.

The silence feels endless. Villanelle lets her own thighs rub together, arches above the bed and comes back down again. She strokes her thumbs against the keys.

Or are you going to tell me to take off my robe?  
  
If I told you to  
Would you do it?  
  
If you asked nicely.

That’s a lie; Villanelle’s hand is already teasing at the sash, pulling the knot loose a little bit at a time. The silk slides over her skin like water or soft fingers.

Take it off.  
  
That wasn’t very nice at all, Eve…  
You haven’t even told me what you’re wearing.  
  
Sweatpants and an old tank top.  
  
You are a waste of good clothing, you know.  
  
So are you. Take it off.

Villanelle feels a mouse-sound sneak between her teeth, and she yanks the sash so hard that it digs into her belly like a misplaced noose. When she lets it go, the robe sighs and unwinds. She shimmies out of it frantically. Her heartbeat trips up a little, just at the relief of finding something interesting.

Okay, now you take off your shirt.  
  
That’s not how this works.  
  
Why not?  
  
Is it off?  
  
Yes. What do you think I have on underneath it?  
  
I bet it’s expensive.  
  
Oh, very.

Both pieces of lingerie are expensive, and also lace – dark green, well-cut. Villanelle weighs the idea of sending Eve a picture and then decides, sadly, that it would just make Eve scared and ready to run.

Instead she closes her eyes and thinks about Eve: rubbing her thighs together, one hand shoved between them. The knuckle of her thumb just the right pressure to rut against. Outside of the sweatpants, because Eve isn’t naughty enough to be fucking herself already. She still has the phone in a lifegrip. She is so close to shattering it; Villanelle wishes she was there to watch.

Eve, will you take off your tank top now? Pretty please?

The typing bubble appears and disappears a few times. Eve wriggles out of her tank top and balls it up, throws it into the dark. She sits there with her breasts sagging hot against her chest, thinking: _this is stupid, this is so stupid, she’s just playing with me_ , and she writes _Yes_ and deletes it and _No_ and deletes it and Villanelle slides a hand into her panties, strokes one delicate finger up her slit. Shivers with it.

It’s off.

She rolls her hips up but doesn’t slip her finger inside. Typing is slower with just one hand, but the slow friction of her other hand is too warm and nice to ignore. She doesn’t type too long a sentence; she doesn’t want to keep Eve waiting, give her time for her regret to go cold and sullen in the dark.

Are you wearing a bra  
You should take your tits out  
You have nice tits Eve  
Has anyone ever bitten them?  
  
No.  
Too late.  
Thanks?  
None of your business.  
  
Mmmm too bad  
You like it rough don’t you  
But you’re embarrassed  
You shouldn’t be  
It’s sexy

Villanelle isn’t very good at denying herself the things she wants; she puts the phone down, fucks herself against three slick fingers. She rubs circles on her clit. Her brain is full up with Eve – Eve licking her lips, staring at her breasts, imagining Villanelle’s mouth on them. Her breath hiccupping. One hand reaching out, slowly, to hold the weight of one breast in her hand – feeling it fill up her palm like a bitten apple. She strokes her nipple in rhythm with Villanelle’s thumb.

In reality her phone keeps buzzing with Actual Eve, nervy and insistent. _Tell me I’m pretty but don’t because I hate you but not really_ ; Villanelle groans at her, fumbles for the phone with one hand.

Again: that’s none of your business.  
And what happened to punctuating?  
Wait oh my god are you  
Villanelle?  
  
Ya  
Feels good  
You do it

She watches the bubble pop in and out a few more times, but it’s itchy and insistent through the white-hot screaming hum of Villanelle’s body and brain. Instead Villanelle scrabbles at the touchscreen with one thumb, taps the phone icon, listens to Eve’s phone ring.

Ring, ring, ring.

“Hello?” That’s Eve’s voice, quiet and terrified. Embarrassed.

“Hey, sexy,” Villanelle gasps. “You don’t – mm – you don’t sound like you’re having as much fun as I, ahh, am. Change that maybe?”

Eve squeaks. It’s adorable. “I didn’t think you were – I mean, I – how long have you been—”

“Shut up and fuck yourself, Eve.”

Silence. Villanelle huffs into it; she feels a whine at the pit of her throat, so she lets that out too. She listens to the muffled sounds of fabric shifting on the other side of the phone and – and then, there – _mm_ , soft and smothered.

“Harder,” she whispers. “You don’t – you don’t have to keep secrets from me – Eve – I know what you like.”

Eve lets out a whine so thin and shrill it’s almost a scream. “There you go, baby,” Villanelle murmurs, “there you go,” and she bucks up one last time and – mm – shudders her way through an orgasm.

She rolls over onto her belly and wipes her sticky fingers off on the coverlet. She puts the phone down gently and puts it on speaker mode; the sound of Eve fills the whole room up, _unh, unh, ahh_.

“Harder,” Villanelle whispers. She rolls back over and watches the ceiling. She listens as Eve goes _unh, unh, ah ah ah_ oh! god! _ah._ When she strokes a thumb against the band of her panties, she imagines it as Eve’s thumb; the thought is warm and familiar as a bubble bath. Sexier, though. The way Eve would be shy up until the very second she wasn’t shy, when she dug her claws in, when she snarled _this is what I want and you’re going to give it to me_. She wonders if that’s what Eve is thinking about: the way she could loom over Villanelle like a jungle cat.

“Are you thinking about me?” she murmurs into the phone.

“Always,” Eve says, voice rough and cracked and desperate. “Always, Villan _elle_ , I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Villanelle keeps her thumb moving, delicate, and digs her nails into her thigh hard enough to make it bleed. She imagines Eve’s teeth. She whispers: “I know. Is it driving you crazy?”

“Yes.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Villanelle’s mouth and she lets it. She twirls her hair around the finger of her other hand – tighter and tighter, until her finger turns white and then a desperate purple. “Come for me now,” she tells it.

Eve lets out a noise like a starving animal and, at that exact moment, Villanelle lets the cord of her hair unravel. Blood comes rushing back into her finger, flooding, stampeding. She rolls her head on her neck to look at her thigh: where her nails are dug in, it’s bleeding.

“That was fun,” she says – softly, carefully – into the phone.

“Yeah,” Eve says. Her voice after orgasm is like a ribcage cracked open. The disgusting purple meat of her heart is exposed, lurching, tender. Villanelle wants to sink her teeth into it; she watches the drops of blood well up on her thigh and bead against her polished nails.

“We could do it again,” Villanelle says. “Later.”

Silence on the phone; the rushing tide of Eve’s breath, in and out. “I don’t think so,” Eve says. She sounds desperately and terribly sad about it, like she doesn’t know she’s lying.

Villanelle hums that sadness back into the mic. “I could go back to masturbating alone,” she says. “You wouldn’t _believe_ the things I think about you.”

“Oh?” Eve says, and then – as soon as the gasp of it has left her lips – “I don’t care.”

“Yes you do,” Villanelle says. “I told you. You don’t have to lie to me, Eve.” She lifts her hand and sucks the blood out from under her fingernails; it tastes like saltwater and rust and Eve’s face after she’d plunged in that knife. That is to say: it tastes good. On the other side of the phone Eve’s mouth is drooping open – she is listening to Villanelle say _the things I think about you_ , she is listening to Villanelle suck her fingers clean. She is looking at her own fingers, which are wet and shining. She is lifting them to her mouth. She is lowering them again.

“You should try it sometime,” Villanelle says to Eve and her rust-wet fingers. “You might like it.”

Eve doesn’t say anything. Villanelle imagines her confusion, her furrowed brow – and then realizes that she doesn’t want to imagine it. She wants to imagine that Eve knows exactly what she means, that she always knows, that Villanelle is a language that Eve can speak perfectly.

In the silence of Eve, Villanelle says: “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, huh boss?” and – quick – hangs up the phone. She hurls it across the bed so that it skips over the covers like a stone and sinks into the pillows. Then she closes her eyes again and brings Eve back to life. Eve stares at her darkened phone, and she looks at her hand again. She understands what Villanelle was trying to tell her. She puts her fingers in her mouth and she realizes that they taste like killing.

**Author's Note:**

> Stare out at the ceiling  
> Preview of a screening  
> Flashback of a feeling  
> Sixth sense of a call  
> I heard you fuck through the wall  
> I heard you fuck
> 
> When I'm bored  
> I send vibrations  
> In your direction  
> From the satellite mind
> 
> When your voice  
> Became vibrations  
> From the satellite mind  
> It sounded like mine  
> \--"Satellite Mind," Metric
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


End file.
